The Memory Tree

A friend once referred to our Christmas tree as “a f***ing soap opera tree”. He spoke in awe and with some envy, as by then our tree had evolved from a fake Scotch pine with bottle-brush branches (say that three times fast) to a stately fake blue spruce laden with ornaments fit for the set of a daytime drama. Our collection grew in earnest after 1991, when Ter brought home two new ornaments and another holiday tradition was born.

The tradition has fallen by the wayside of late, mostly because the tree ain’t getting any bigger and the ornaments were getting out of hand, but I’m okay with that. I look fondly on every decoration because, for most of them, a memory is attached.

Like the Heineken beer mat from the pub where some work friends and I had Christmas drinks. Or the silly snowmen that came in east coast Christmas packages from Nicole. Jules’ bells and jingle bells. A blown glass angel from my wee sister and a sparkly handmade pine cone from a good friend. We have a ton of Tiggers, a couple Captains (Jack Sparrow and James T Kirk), some Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeers and a collection of oldies culled from our family trees when we were kids. The unicorn from a craft fair; the shiny grapes Ter loved as a child; the sun, the moon and lots of stars just because we like them. I look at our tree and see more than a set designer’s finest hour. I look at our tree and see history. Good times. Loved ones. I don’t recall what ornament came in which year anymore, but it doesn’t matter. The tree connects me to my past and gives me a memory for the future. Forward, backward or sitting in the moment, no matter which way I look, the view is a pretty one.